“Calder, a letter for you.” His dad gave them a quick smile. “Looks like another one from Tommy.”
Calder tore it open and began decoding as Petra watched, fascinated. “How did you learn to do that?” she asked.
“I made it up,” he said, glad she’d happened to see. Then he began to understand what he was reading. It said:
L:1 F:1 Z:1 N:1 P:1 T:2, -
T:1 T:2 P:1 N:1 - F:2 L:2 X:2 P:1 N:1 -
L:2 W:2 V:2. - Y:2 P:1 - Y:2 F:1 I:2 V:2 - V:2 L:2 -
L:1 L:2 F:2 P:1 - V:1 L:2 F:2 P:1. - I:1 W:2 V:2 -
I:2 L:2 - F:2 L:2 I:2 P:1 F:3. -
V:2 L:2 F:2 F:2 F:3
“Whoa! Petra, there’s something else we’ve got to do — we’ve got to rescue Tommy.”
Calder and Petra spent most of the weekend baking brownies and selling them on Harper Avenue. They explained to the neighbors that they were raising money for Tommy Segovia and his mom, Zelda, to come home because Tommy’s new stepfather had deserted his family in New York. “There one day, gone the next,” was Calder’s way of putting it. Everyone was sympathetic, and everyone bought.
Late Sunday afternoon, as the grand total of $129 was being stuffed into several coffee cans to go to the bank, there was news about the theft.
The news was local.
According to the evening broadcast, an elderly woman in Chicago had just notified the authorities about receiving a strange delivery. That delivery was a letter that arrived back in October, and that woman was Louise Coffin Sharpe. She was asking for police protection.
“WHAT?” shouted Petra and Calder together. They dropped the jar of quarters they’d been counting and rushed around the corner to where Calder’s parents were watching TV in the next room.
The broadcaster read the letter aloud. Petra and Calder stared at each other. It sounded exactly like the letter Ms. Hussey had described to her class. The broadcaster explained that “For an older woman living on her own, it had required an act of great courage” to finally take the letter to the police. The broadcaster clearly had never met Mrs. Sharpe.
“Oh my God — the letter was delivered right down the block.” Calder’s mom clapped her hand to her forehead. “And Calder, you were just over there!”
“Mrs. Sharpe is involved,” Calder said to Petra in a low voice. “Do you think she was waiting all that time for the thief to get back in touch with her?”
“Who can tell? And think of Ms. Hussey’s letter — this can’t be pure coincidence,” Petra said. “It’s too close.”
“Do you remember that Louise Sharpe’s husband was a Vermeer scholar?” Calder’s dad said to his mom.
“What?” Calder and Petra asked in one voice.
Calder’s dad said he remembered hearing that Mrs. Sharpe’s husband had been murdered in Europe many decades ago, and that he had been doing research on Vermeer at the time of his death.
Calder and Petra stared at each other.
“Murdered how, Dad?” Calder asked.
“I don’t remember, but I think it was considered a random street crime, a horrible case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They never arrested anyone.”
“Poor Mrs. Sharpe,” Petra said. “Well, that could explain some of her odd behavior.”
“And maybe more,” Calder added.
The phones rang nonstop all over Hyde Park that night. Looking out his living room window after Petra went home, Calder could see the blue flash of police cars and knew they must be stationed outside Mrs. Sharpe’s house. She’d be safe, no question about that. A nagging doubt crept into Calder’s mind: Could Mrs. Sharpe be so clever that she had framed herself? He wouldn’t put it past her. Even though her husband had been killed, it was hard to picture her being afraid so many years later. And Ms. Hussey … what was going on with her? The pieces just didn’t fit.
Petra, three houses away, followed the flashing lights on her ceiling, her thoughts falling into rhythm with the pulse of blue.
What about the letter she had picked up that day on Harper Avenue — had that been one of the original three? Was Mrs. Sharpe really a victim now? Was Ms. Hussey?
Petra’s thoughts swirled in circles, refusing to make sense.
The University School was buzzing the next day. Ms. Hussey was not there, and word had leaked to the papers that she had been arrested the night before as a suspect in the theft. Her class was out of control — it took the substitute half the morning to stop the accusations and shouting.
“A suspect! She’d never help a criminal!”
“How do you know? Maybe she was forced into it. Remember when her arm was hurt?”
“She would have called the police right away — I know her.”
“We all know her, dummy. What we don’t know is what’s going on.”
“Somebody in this room must have called the police last night.”
“No way!”
“That rat is dead meat!”
“Yeah — a memory!”
Even when they’d finally quieted down, the sixth graders glowered at one another suspiciously. There was clearly a traitor in their midst. The substitute handed out sheets of word problems to keep everyone busy.
At lunchtime, Petra and Calder sat next to each other as usual.
“I’m worried that the letter I picked up in your garden was Ms. Hussey’s, from the thief. If it was, then she wouldn’t have any proof that she’d been one of the three — and who would believe me if I said I’d found it and lost it again?” Petra was pushing her grilled cheese back and forth across her plate.
Before Calder could reply, Denise leaned over. “Something the rest of us don’t know about, Petra? Something you’d like to tell the police? No more secrets, now. And hanging out in Calder’s garden — really.”
Petra moved away angrily, bumping Denise’s elbow by mistake as she picked up her lunch tray. Denise lost control of her butterscotch pudding, and it slithered down her leg. Slipping on the pudding, she lost her balance and landed heavily on the substitute teacher, who was sitting nearby. Petra smiled. Other tables began to giggle, and Denise told the substitute that Petra had pushed her.
Calder and a number of kids turned on Denise, and soon they were shouting. Denise turned crimson and yelled, “I hate all of you!”
The class had to stay inside during recess as punishment for bad behavior.
It was a horrible day.
Hyde Park continued to make the papers. The Chicago Tribune had pictures of both Mrs. Sharpe and Ms. Hussey on the front page the next day, as well as the happy news that Ms. Hussey had received the same letter as Mrs. Sharpe. Ms. Hussey was released. She made a statement about having been terrified, as was Mrs. Sharpe, to do anything about the letter. Both women were given round-the-clock police protection.
There were many questions. Why would a professional thief ask an old woman and a young schoolteacher to help him or her? Why hadn’t the first letter been followed by another? And who had gotten the third?
Then a reporter added to what Petra and Calder already knew: Louise Sharpe was the widow of Leland Sharpe, a Vermeer expert who had died in Amsterdam thirty-one years ago. He had written to his wife that he had made a breakthrough discovery about Vermeer’s work and was then silenced before he could share it.
The possibility of his death being connected to a discovery about Vermeer changed everything. Mrs. Sharpe could be genuinely afraid. Petra and Calder admitted to each other that she just might be innocent. Or at least partly innocent — things with Mrs. Sharpe were never simple.
“Ms. Hussey!”
When she returned the next day, her sixth-grade class crowded around, giving her hugs and stepping on her sneakers.
“How was jail?”
“Were you really scared?”
“How come you didn’t tell us that was your letter?”
“We were so worried about you!”
The questions poured out, but she wouldn’t talk about either the arrest or the letter. She look
ed happy to be back, but nervous. Every time someone dropped a book or bumped into a desk, she jumped. She glanced into the hallway a number of times, as if afraid that the policeman on duty might have left.
She took down all of the Vermeer posters and all of the newspaper clippings. The classroom looked bare and dismal. She asked the class what they wanted to study, but when they suggested ideas, she didn’t seem to be listening. Petra thought about bringing up Charles Fort’s research, but could tell it wasn’t the right moment.
The day after Ms. Hussey came back, Petra left science class and went to her homeroom to get a book she’d forgotten. She found Ms. Hussey standing alone, her back to the door, talking on a cell phone.
Petra took two steps into the room and froze. She overheard “mistake … but why … it is here … but I can’t do that!” And then her teacher began to weep. Not wanting her to know that she’d heard, Petra crept out.
Petra felt suddenly outraged for Ms. Hussey. She was a wonderful person. Who or what was hurting her? And were Mrs. Sharpe and Ms. Hussey really so protected now?
Petra didn’t think so. Something was very wrong with Ms. Hussey.
“Come on, Calder,” Petra said when school ended. “Let’s go someplace we don’t usually go, someplace on the campus. How about Fargo Hall? I’ve got money for hot chocolate.”
Petra’s hat was pulled down almost to her eyebrows, and her hair fanned out in a black halo around the bottom. She was walking a couple of steps ahead of Calder.
“You remember what Mrs. Sharpe said about people not looking carefully enough at what is around them?”
“Of course,” Calder said.
“I think we should be careful, that’s all.”
“What’s the matter? Something happen?” Calder was looking curiously at her.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
They plodded quietly through the dim afternoon light, heading two blocks north on University Avenue. Fargo Hall, close to a century old, had stone gargoyles and carved human heads on every turret and ledge. A tangle of leafless ivy clutched at the limestone walls.
As they pulled open the heavy doors on Fifty-seventh Street, there was a comforting blast of heat and student messiness. Petra bought two hot chocolates with whipped cream, and they headed through French doors into what looked like a giant living room. There was a fire in the fireplace, and students were scattered around in armchairs, talking quietly or reading.
They sat down on huge leather chairs in a corner.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Petra began. “You and I know some things other people don’t. There’re all the coincidences that have led us along, the possible storage places in Mrs. Sharpe’s house, and my feeling that the painting might be hidden behind dark wood.”
“Right.” Calder nodded toward the walls in the room they were sitting in. “It’s everywhere.”
“I think we need to go into high gear and start actively hunting.” Petra told Calder about overhearing Ms. Hussey’s conversation. “I have a feeling that she may be in real danger. We may not have much time.”
Calder put down his cup and started running his fingers excitedly through his pentominoes.
“Shh,” Petra said, aware of someone glaring at them, someone in a dark armchair across the room.
Calder pulled out one of the pieces. “It’s the U. U for understand … no, that’s not right. It’s U for under. Under — maybe the painting is hidden beneath something.”
“What else do we have to go on?” Petra asked.
“Well, what you heard today.”
“… it is here …” Petra repeated Ms. Hussey’s words.
“Here!” said Calder. “Imagine that Ms. Hussey, being adventuresome and wanting to do the right thing for art, did help the thief. Or how about this: Imagine that she and Mrs. Sharpe are working together. They do know each other. Imagine Ms. Hussey hid the painting and Mrs. Sharpe knows where it is. Imagine they picked a spot they both knew. What would be a logical place?”
“Maybe it’s also U for University School! What a brilliant place to hide something — around hundreds of kids!”
Calder was jabbing the U pentomino into the arm of his chair for emphasis. “Great — and imagine that we found the painting, and no one ever had to know that Ms. Hussey was involved? Except you and me, and we’d never tell. We’d be rescuing all three of them: the Lady, Ms. Hussey, and Mrs. Sharpe.”
“How about the third person? The person who got letter number three?”
Petra glanced over to see that the armchair in the corner was empty.
“The dark horse — the difficult piece in any puzzle that doesn’t seem to be there at all until you need it.” Calder popped the U back into his pocket.
Both tried not to get too excited. Charles Fort, as Calder reminded Petra on the way home, collected “294 showers of living things” without knowing why.
The University School was built around a central courtyard. Gracie Hall, now the Lower School, had been built in 1903 as a home for John Dewey’s radical new school. Forming the west side of the quadrangle, King Hall had been built almost thirty years later for the University of Chicago’s education department. The idea was to be able to observe what was going on in Dewey’s now-famous laboratory. A new middle-school building, built in 1990, was on the east side, and the high school, built in 1960, on the north. Poppyfield Hall, tucked behind the high school, dated back to 1904 and had music and art rooms.
The following morning, Calder and Petra sat down on a bench in the Gracie Hall lobby. They were facing a stone fireplace that had a bust of Francis Parker on the mantel. Parker, a colleague of John Dewey’s, had a University High baseball cap on and a red scarf around his neck.
“The painting is small, remember? The canvas is only about a foot by a foot and a half.” Calder was fiddling with his pentominoes.
“Think — hundreds of kids and grown-ups go in and out of this building all day. There are cleaning people in here at night. What’s a place that no one would disturb?”
Calder pulled a pentomino out of his pocket and looked at it.
They both stared at the T in Calder’s palm. “T for twelve. There aren’t twelve floors … hmm. I don’t get it.” Calder shrugged.
Petra sat up straight, her knees cupped in her hands. “Let’s try to think like Ms. Hussey. She’d find a place with no leaks or mice or anything.”
Calder was scraping the T back and forth on the wooden bench. “Twelve … does Ms. Hussey have twelve of anything?”
“She wears all those earrings — there’s a key, a pearl, a high-heeled shoe …”
Calder was muttering now. “Key-pearl-shoe … shoe-pearl-key … pearl-shoe-key … heel-key-pearl … key-pearl-heel …”
“Hey! That sounds like ‘keep her here,’ doesn’t it?” Petra laughed. “Now you’ve got me thinking like a pentomino. Maybe this means she’s in Gracie Hall!”
Calder, in his excitement, gave Petra a quick bear hug. “Good thinking,” he said.
Straightening her glasses, she tried not to look too pleased.
He and Petra agreed that they should pretend to make a master map of the school. This would give them an excuse to poke around during lunch. None of the classes aside from their own would know that it wasn’t an assignment.
At lunchtime, armed with measuring tapes, clipboards, and pencils, they’d covered the first floor, checking even unlikely places. They looked in storage closets, behind file cabinets, under the beds in the nurse’s office, inside old paper towel dispensers in the bathroom, around the coatrack in the director’s boardroom, and beneath hats and mittens in the Lost and Found.
On day two, they covered the second floor, although it was hard to be thorough. Most of the classrooms had hundred-year-old built-in cupboards and drawers and bookshelves, and it was awkward explaining why they had to look into those to measure the room. Petra got bitten by a hamster, and in the science room Calder accidentally allowed a box of hissing coc
kroaches to escape down a heating grate. Petra dropped a hunk of limestone being examined by fourth-grade geologists on her toe, and Calder got a third-grade teacher angry by trying to look behind her bulletin board and knocking off some drawings of the Great Chicago Fire.
They had worked their way through Gracie Hall except for the basement, which was locked.
They decided to talk with Mrs. Trek, the Lower School principal, about letting them in. Always enthusiastic about kids’ projects, she could be counted on to help. They explained about the map, and she agreed to take them down there the next day.
“That defeats the whole purpose.” Calder was digging in his locker for his math book. He didn’t realize that Petra had walked ahead.
A voice behind him said, “Talking to yourself? Where’s your girlfriend?” It was Denise. Calder felt his face get hot and slammed his locker door. Someone ought to hide her somewhere — permanently.
On Monday morning they met up with Mrs. Trek, as planned. Reminiscing about the kindergarten field trip to the basement, a tradition in the Lower School, Calder and Petra watched as the principal struggled with the bolt.
They had forgotten how weird the place was. The walls were fieldstone, and the floor went uphill and down. Right angles had clearly been abandoned below ground level. They saw piles of rolled rugs, broken benches, a tangle of plumbing pipes, even a claw-foot bathtub. There were spidery shapes made out of old desks stacked top to top. Mrs. Trek had just unlocked the supply room when her cell phone began to ring. A parent needed to speak with her in the office.
“Oh dear — will you be okay down here for just a minute? I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she left, Calder and Petra opened the supply room door. Reaching bravely into blackness, Calder groped around for the light. It wasn’t on the wall by the door. He took a couple of steps into the room, ran into a string hanging from the ceiling, and pulled it. Shelves of construction paper and boxes of pencils and rulers jumped into focus. Teachers were allowed down here for supplies. Both kids could imagine Ms. Hussey using it as a hiding place.
Chasing Vermeer Page 8